Rossington Van Zant, Paranormal Investigator
by TheRealTogashi
Summary: Got a Problem with the Supernatural? Call Sinatro & Van Zant, Paranormal Investigators at 555-535-6370! In New Orleans, Stand Users have been on the rise for months, and the office of Sinatro and Van Zant is becoming busier. What force could be causing this influx? Will the secret of the Stand remain hidden from the general eye?


The nurse had driven to work like any other Wednesday in her old sedan, which at one point had been dirty and unkempt, but with both her kids away at college, there was no reason for it to be anymore. The chassis of the car was still rusted and the paint was peeling badly. She saw a billboard which caught her eye while on the highway to her job at the New Orleans Central Hospital. It read in big red capital letters: "Got a Problem with the Supernatural? Call Sinatro Van Zant, Paranormal Investigators at 555-535-6370". The sign stood out to the nurse, who had never heard of real Paranormal Investigators, only the type on those staged reality shows that feature the duo going into an apparently haunted mansion and reporting some strange apparition-like activity, in which they would conclude the episode with a simple "we don't know for sure" and credits. But the nurse remembered the number, and this probably came about from the traffic on all her sides and in front of her. Being stuck she had no resort but to memorize the most interesting thing around her, that billboard.

She arrived at work at 7 AM sharp in her scrubs, where she parked in the ER employee parking. There was a huge difference between ER employee parking and ER public parking, she wasn't allowed to park in public parking in the case of many emergencies at once. She made her way inside with her pocketbook and upon arrival into the lobby, a savvy receptionist greeted her warmly.

By 10 AM was the first surgery Dr Marvin Dre had scheduled, and he had prepared with his pale-white lab coat and blue gloves, the average doctor attire. Dr Dre was a taller man, approaching 6 foot 2 inches, and wore glasses at all times, even though he claimed his vision was nearly perfect. He had a darker skin tone, which was a result of his white mother and his black father. His neurosurgery research, as far as everyone else knew (of course withholding details that they weren't educated about enough to explain), was revolutionary, and his psychotherapy research in tandem with direct surgery was ahead of his time but often considered as pushy on some patients.

Either way, the surgery was somewhat popular among those mentally handicapped, and this patient was a specific case he had been following for a few months. She was in a dangerous car accident which resulted in the premature death of her husband, and she lost control of her emotions after the incident. He planned her rehabilitation to be maybe six to eight weeks in total, after her ten hour surgery.

At 9:45 AM, Dr Dre prepared his operation with the help of four other doctors and around six nurses, including the observant nurse who still recited the phone number in her head more times than she could count. It stayed glued in her mind. Sinatro and Van Zant, huh, she thought, what a pair of loonies.

At 9:55 AM, the patient was brought in and put under a heavy anesthetic. Dr Dre wiped a random droplet of sweat off his forehead, the lights are very bright in this room, and there's a lot of pressure put on succeeding in this operation, guess it only makes sense that I'm already sweating.

The operation had been going on for 3 hours, and the other four doctors were quite pleased with the pace and precision. Dr Marvin Dre, however, was not as focused. His hands were sweaty, and he couldn't help but droop his eyelids closed in a drowsy fashion, but was jolted back up by a fellow doctor.

Dr Dre took the scalpel in his right hand and put it down on the table beside him. He felt a sudden murmur in his heart, which caused his whole body to feel a tingling sensation that developed into a hot flash. In order to counteract this, Dr Dre knew he mustn't continue on with the operation, and instead started limping out of the room, as his hands felt like needles, and his eyes felt like weights.

When he walked out of the room, he realized he needed a place to lay down, and fast. If he were to fall unconscious right now, he might injure himself in a fall. The other doctors came walking behind him, their faces curious yet nervous. Dr Dre found a nearby room, which had a free bed to lay on. He made sure to lay on his front, with his head to the side so that he wouldn't choke on his own regurgitation. He then finally passed out, as a couple of doctors rushed around to check up on his vitals.

"I tell you, the Beatles were revolutionary for their time. They were mainstream and experimental. Everyone loved some Beatles back in my day!" Frankie turned up "Come Together" which was playing over the radio.

"Yeah, well music tastes change over the generations, Frank. The Beatles might even still be popular now, but you gotta remember the real stuff that changed the world," Rossington pulled the old, ripped-up car seat back so that he was almost completely lying down. The convertible was nothing impressive, Frankie had named it the Deja Vu, and had owned it since the mid 80s apparently.

"So what, you prefer classical, Ross?" replied Frankie with a deep smirk on his face.

"No, I prefer the the rock and roll tyrant, Elvis Presley…" the way Rossington exclaimed the king of rock n' roll's name was meant to sound grandiose and imposing, but all it did was make Frankie laugh almost louder than the radio.

"Hahaha! That old stuff? That's before even my time, Ross. That's what my parents listened to when they were young and not signing divorce papers, that shows how old it is!"

"And how magical it is that it's had a profound impact even on today's generation," Rossington looked away in a showing of his supposed intellectual superiority.

"Sure, Mister Thesis. Lemme give you a little fun fact, the only thing Presley invented was a way to steal black culture without being called a hillbilly racist," Frankie's voice rose to almost a full yell, "As a matter of fact, I'd even say the Beetles are the best band ever crea-"

Frankie's cellphone interrupted his slowly-forming diatribe mid-sentence, and the duo both shifted their eyes towards it. It was sitting in the front cup holder in front of the center console. Frankie reached for it, but Rossington snatched it quicker. It was always a game to see who would get to the phone first, but Rossington was adamant about taking it when Frankie was driving.

"Hello, this is Sinatro and Van Zant, Paranormal Investigators, you're speaking to Rossington Van Zant, how may I help you?" Rossington had coordinated his introduction years ago and it stuck by him since. Frankie turned down the radio. The newly deafening silence was quite the adjustment to Frankie, as he waited to hear Rossington's response. "At the hospital? It just started happening in the last 20 minutes? That's… unusual… yes - yes we can take care of it. Mhm, yeah, the price, well it's for a good cause so, we might take this job up for free- a discount, maybe… yes, ok, we'll be there in…" Rossington's blue eyes turned towards Frankie's, and after a moment of thought, Frankie whispered, "Fifteen". "My colleague estimates we should be there in 15 minutes… of course, goodbye."

"For free?! This ain't some charity organization, Ross,"

"I understand that, but no way a doctor's gonna pay for any business supernatural or paranormal, that's just the way those white coats are. If anything, I'm sadder we won't have time to get dinner, Frank,"

"Oh boohoo. What were the details?" Frankie focused on the left turn he had to make, so his words trailed off.

"Not much, to be honest. This doctor guy was performing neurosurgery and was apparently feeling very dizzy and lightheaded. Looked like he was in a cold sweat. He limped to another room and laid down on those doctor bed things, and now he's currently been in a coma for the last 20 minutes. If that wasn't weird enough, other doctors, nurses, and patients have been having anxiety attacks, an abnormal amount."

"So either a Stand User has infiltrated the hospital for one reason or another, or the doctor released a Stand he couldn't fully control, ergo the coma,"

"It's safe to assume. This woman apparently saw our billboard on Route 10, and knew she had to call us. Told you the billboards weren't a waste of money," Rossington's calmness always left Frankie speechless. Ross had been in the business for less than a decade, and he had grown so much since his first cases. Frankie always felt good when Rossington started flexing off his intelligence, and one which he wasn't vain toward at all. This sense of mentoring and nurturing was rewarding to both of them.

After a good long thinking moment, Frankie's face contorted to an uncomfortable look and he asked, "How many cases has that been this month so far?"

"Nine, I'm pretty sure. What, it's the twenty-first? That's a pretty drastic increase from last month, which was a pretty drastic increase from the month before that… four in July, seven in August, and so far nine in September and the month isn't over yet."

"That's absolutely insane, though I suppose anything above four for me has become insane. Back when I started this business in '98, I was lucky to get three a month. It was tough in my heyday…"

"I'm sure it was, boss," Rossington retorted with a rather sarcastic voice, as if coddling a baby.

"Don't give me your sass, boy!" The yell was jocular, but whenever Frankie was frustrated, his repressed Alabaman accent came through, and here it persisted. Rossington gave out a hearty laugh after a failed attempt to hold in his giggles. Frankie started to laugh along with him, before he slowed down to a stop at a light and continued, "No, but seriously, it's creeping me out. This ain't normal, Ross, it's not right,"

"Quit overreacting. Like you said earlier, we're making more money than ever before. I can eat more than ramen noodles every night now,"

"Yeah, but…" Frankie became utterly excited, his eyes wide open, "what if there's a secret conspiracy destined to shake the very foundations of New Orleans to its core!? And what if we're the super secret agents trying to uncover its dark underground Stand ring?"

"You're losing me again, Frank. Wouldn't you know if you were a super secret agent?"

"W-well, it's fun to imagine, Ross. That's what truly matters," Frankie seemed flustered for words, and once again Rossington continued to laugh.

"Haha! You're like a little kid!"

"When you become my age, you're gonna wanna wish you were a little kid again," Frankie was back at focusing on the road in front of him. The sky was growing darker. He glanced at the digital clock. 7:36. "It's gonna be a long night, Rossy boy," he sighed, "Hope they have a cafeteria at the hospital."

At the hospital, Frankie parked after fidgeting about the clutch. The repeated back-and-forth motion always made Rossington just the slightest bit carsick. Upon full stop, they both opened their car doors, and exited the vehicle, Ross slicking back his hair, Frank adjusting his signature aviators. They jostled their hands inside their pockets and walked together into the emergency entrance, both of them trying their best to look as cool as possible.

Upon their entry, they were greeted by a nurse woman behind the receptionist's desk, "Oh, thank heaven you came! I'm the woman who called in, my name is Madonna. We have over 9 of our own staff here incapacitated, and the number continues to rise," she was Hispanic, Frank noted upon first glance, but if it wasn't clear enough from her appearance, you could definitely tell by her accent and the speed which she spoke, he was having a hard time keeping up! "And this way, we have Doctor Dre, who is currently in a coma, and has been for at least a half an hour now," her talk slowed down.

"Thank you, ma'am, any information given will help. I'm sure that I, Frankie Sinatro, and my partner, Rossington Van Zant, can take care of it from here. Would you mind guiding us to where the doctor is staying?" She nodded and started to walk down the white, bright halls. The two investigators followed. Around them, nurses, doctors, and other staff were scurrying up and down, all occupied with their own assignments.

Madonna opened up the door marked with a large number, 118. Inside lie Doctor Dre, his face looking peaceful, but his body covered in wires and equipment. The duo stepped softly toward the bed. Frankie nodded at Rossington over his shoulder, and this signified to Ross that he was going to use his Stand.

For preparation, Rossington asked for the nurse to leave for a moment, and after she agreed to, he turned off the lights in the room, the light switch nearby the door. Rossington then added, "we're all clear."

Frankie stood beside the bed in the dark, and from his arm came out a blue and white arm of a similar thickness. From it released an indigo glow which shined through the black room. When the glow hit upon Dr Dre's body, a hiss noise was audible. After a few seconds of concentration from the two, Frankie muttered, "turn back on the lights." Of course, Ross did so, and after his eyes adjusted to the burn of the fluorescent lighting, he turned toward his partner.

"So, he has a Stand then?" He calmly slid his hands into his jean pockets.

"Yes, he definitely does. The issue now is that we have no clue where it is. We know cases have been occurring all over the hospital, but for all we know the thing is making it's way to Baton Rouge," this was obviously hyperbole, but the truth still remained unknown to them both. Rossington new this was a joke, but he also knew he'd been through crazier things with Frankie than this.

They left the room and met back up with Madonna, which then led them to visit the 9 incapacitated victims. Unfortunately, the two didn't find any leads. After visiting the 9th, a black woman who had been a nurse there, another nurse ran up to Madonna to inform her there he just been a 10th victim. All three rushed over to the scene, where the doctor fell down the stairs right onto his forehead, leaving a huge gash.

As staff were already taking the man to a room to clean up his wounds, treat him, and run tests to see if trauma had been inflicted, Rossington and Frankie jogged up the stairs to the third floor. After the 8th or 9th step, they both started coughing and were heavily breathing. At the end of the hallway, they both saw a blood-red foot float around the corner. The hallway was a Y-shaped intersection. The partners, without a word to each other, both darted toward the intersection.

When they reached the end, Frankie casually rotated to walk down the left, while Rossington instinctively turned to face the right. Both of them then turned again to face each other.

"Uh, Ross, where do you think you're going?" He had a genuine concern all over his face.

"I'm going to follow the Stand, Frank," his eyes were dead serious, and a frown covered his face, "where do you think you're going?"

"I'm following the Stand! He went down this way!"

"No, he went down this way!"

"Ross, stop kidding with me. This is serious business, innocent lives are at stake here,"

"I don't care which way you go, old man. I'm following what I saw and that's that! I have better eyes than you anyway." He shot down the right hallway with an air of determination.

Huh, did he just ditch me? Well, no point in following him, I have a Stand to deal with, and with that thought he jogged down the left hallway as he had planned originally.

Rossington kept running and running. His legs didn't seem to grow tired at all. What right did Frankie have to say that he was wrong, when he clearly saw it turn right with his own two eyes? It then hit him like a ton of bricks.

What if, he stopped mid-stride and braked with the heel of his shoe, the Stand creates illusions? It was certainly possible, but it wouldn't exactly explain how so many people, seemingly random and innocent, would lose consciousness out of nowhere. He observed his surroundings, the room numbers were 397, 398, 399, and 400, going back and forth that he could see. Before this he didn't even realize the lights in the hallway were gone, leaving only the little bit of natural light from windows at almost 8 PM to fill the darkness. He decided that if it was an illusory Stand, he'd be better off in a group with Frankie, so targeting either of them might be harder. He spun his body around and ran back in the direction he came.

Once again he continued to run nonstop, with no pressure to his step at all. At one point in his seemingly never-ending rhythm, he tripped over himself and fell onto his hands. He brought them close to his face to see that they had scrapes on them now. He picked up his eyes from his hands and started to peer around his environment. It was hard to discriminate details in the dark, which got increasingly darker, however he was able to read the big numbers on the rooms. 397, 398, 399, 400.

Rossington sprung up from his bruised hands, they only stung a little now. He pretended to look confident as if someone was watching, but in all truth it was but superficial; underneath he was freaking the hell out. He creeped toward door number 397, and slowly turned the knob to hear all the mechanisms inside at their work. The creak of the hinges introduced the inside of the room. There were two beds, both separated by curtains, which were both drawn closed. The lights were off. The silence was the most eerie, there was no noise at all, besides an ambient wind blowing outside.

Rossington walked toward the curtains; he believed if one of the beds had a patient or a phone or an emergency button, anything, he could be recovered safely. He drew back the first curtain with little thought. Behind it revealed a blanket covering what appeared to be a corpse. Rossington let out a little "woah" and a few swear words. He tiptoed over to the blanket, and looked at the table next to the bed for something he could use to call for help. Nothing there. Well, better now than never.

Upon pulling back the blanket, Rossington saw a man, not much younger than he, his face pale as a ghost's. His eyes were closed. To Ross, he looked a bit familiar with that hairstyle and wicked goatee. Of course, his first reaction was to jolt back in complete disgust, but after that he refocused his attention on the clipboard which laid on his lap. He first touched it just to check that it wasn't poisonous or an illusion, then he picked it up.

Rossington saw the name of the victim: Medlocke Van Zant. He threw up in his mouth. M-Medlocke? No way, he's been dead for 7 years, thought Rossington. He remembered the day he found out that his big brother had died. He knew Medlocke was a stoner, but never anything more than cannabis and hallucinogens did Ross know he used. But apparently there was a metric shitton of heroine in his system when he was found dead in his small apartment.

Rossington took a huge step back from the body. He knew he should've gotten him help before it went too far. But he wasn't in time. And here he was seeing his body again, and not deep in a grave somewhere in Virginia. He took another step back in horror, this time tripping over some wires. He fell onto his back, as his wind was knocked out of him. He gasped a few times before grabbing onto the table and pulling himself up back on his feet. He calmed himself down, and pulled close the curtain.

This Stand- it's messing with my mind. That can't be my brother because my brother is gone. I've got to keep a level head. He regained his composure, and decided to walk to the other curtain, this time prepared for anything. He slid his hand across the cold blue texture of the curtain, this time noticing the intricate white floral patterns that repeated over and over again, but the only reason he noticed the detail was to set his mind straight from his aforementioned scare. What could hide behind this curtain? Why even try to look? Why not just go back into the hallway and run in a never-ending loop, looking for some sort of escape? Why not just lie down in the middle of the hallway, stare up at the ceiling and wait for some form of solace to gleam through the windows, a god revealing the way? He realized that this was ridiculous; there's no way there's actually a real deity of any sort watching our every movement through the sky, so what would be the use of trying to find a clue in something entirely unrelated? These thoughts haunted Rossington's mind all within an instant.

He knew he couldn't just stand there and wait to go numb, so he clenched onto the curtain with his hand. With a moment of hesitation prior, he swung his hand away to his right side, revealing yet another bed and a figure drenched in darkness, sitting up. The figure had the silhouette of a woman. She was completely silent. Rossington stepped up to her, but as he approached, the woman started to giggle. Rossington stopped a few feet from the bed, and forced his eyes to adjust to notice details on the figure. Her black hair and blue eyes broke through to his view, and almost immediately he knew who she was. Her giggle broke out into a sinister chuckle. It was Eileen.

"Eileen?" Rossington said, shocked, "wh-why are you here?" The skepticism that remained in his brain faded. She was right in front of him, after all. In the flesh.

"I'm not here, Ross," her voice was familiar to him, but shakier, "Like you aren't here for me." His face scrunched into disgust as her belly puffed up like a balloon. As it expanded and expanded, Eileen cried louder and louder until she started screaming harshly. Her eyes started to pop out of their sockets, and her veins glowed a blue color from her palish skin. Rossington covered his eyes in his hands before hearing a large pop. He spread apart his fingers to look past them as a child would do, and the bed was left empty, no remnants of life at all.

He swerved his body past the curtain to see the windows showing the bright, beautiful moon. It appeared to be, to a layman of lunology if such a thing existed, a full moon. He made his way to the windows. He stared outside for what felt like an eternity, before turning around to find all the curtains, and behind them, beds, were gone. He knew what it was know, that this Stand could do, as his eyes started to look weary.

Frankie's jog came to a halt when he saw another staircase. Beside it was a sign that read simply "roof". He took a breather at the base of the stairs and considered the possibilities of this Stand's power. Maybe it was a Stand that could trick people's eyesight, or perhaps their perception of reality. Just the thought of being tricked into some illusion made him fear the Stand's capabilities. Branching from this idea, he started feeling the walls to make sure they were solid. They were all in order, it seemed to Frankie. He slowly lifted his foot onto the first step on the staircase, and he felt completely secure. He climbed it, slowly at first, but getting faster as he went. Upon reaching the top of the staircase, there was a small space between the last step and the door. The lights from the hallway didn't shine over here, so Frankie found himself feeling around for the doorknob.

The door opened, behind it a vast, purple sky, which glistened brightly with small lively stars. In front of him, he saw that the sun had not completely set yet, with its corona piercing through the increasing darkness. He took a step towards it, his shadow casting back into the dark staircase. From that staircase, not visible to his peripheral vision, was a blood-red hand, which made its way to its unsuspecting prey.

Its forefinger gently latched onto Frankie's polo shirt collar without his notice. It made a slight tug, and retreated back into the blackness. In an instant, Frankie started sweating and turned to focus once again on the staircase shrouded in darkness. With his adrenaline kicking in, he seized the knob and slammed the door closed. He acted as if he knew he was in grave danger, spinning around without any direction as to where to go. He was on the roof of a multi-storied hospital building, there was no place to go. He's gonna get me. This guy, his Stand, whatever. It's out for me. It - it might even try to knock me out over the ledge!

At this point, Frankie's collective thoughts represented the order and alignment of a Jackson Pollock piece. One of these thoughts, utterly suppressed by the others, was that of how insane he had become, and how focus and attention would be the only way to react correctly here. His body, whether from instinct or something else, soon enough cleared any doubt from his mind. Frankie had focused, and now he was ready to come up with a plan. He edged to the door and started to turn it, before learning that it was locked from the inside. He knew this would happen. The Stand wanted to emulate a sense of despair as close to real as possible, and, when the target was at their most gullible, the Stand could have them wipe out, but other than that, the Stand itself was harmless. This is what he had deduced so far, and it would explain why there was no injury to the other cases from falling unconscious, but rather the fall proceeding it. If his willpower had left him, he'd be like the other victims. He stood and braced.

It felt like a few minutes had passed, with Frankie keeping his eyes shut the whole time. He had reached the peak amount of calmness he knew he could in this situation, and knew he had to face his fears head on. He peeked around the roof, this time the sun's soothing light completely shrouded. Frankie turned his head to the stars, which shone even brighter without the sunlight's interruption. He looked back in front of him, and then reached his hand into his pocket. He was lucky enough to find a candy bar he'd gotten between running back and forth between hospital rooms from the vending machine. He carefully ripped off the wrapper, with the intentions being not to break the bar inside.

He took a bite, blinked, and then noticed something rather strange. It looked as if the stars had moved. This was impossible, however, and Frankie knew this. The stars wouldn't move, only you would. It could all be calculated precisely by latitude and longitude. Blink. They moved again, this time dilating. Blink, blink, blink. They were coming closer and closer. The stars weren't stars at all. Frankie crushed the candy bar in his hand, the chocolate melting onto his skin, before throwing it away. The stars' descent was obvious, and they grouped together right in front of him, only a few meters away. The whiteness created a gleaming silhouette of a man, maybe average height. I know that shape from anywhere, thought Frankie, that's none other than Ross himself…

The formation stopped glowing, and resolved into an exact replica of Rossington, but this one with a deeply-carved smirk across his face. He stared for what felt like an eternity, completely motionless, before, emanating from his body, came out his Stand: it was physically unimpressive, but had a syringe hidden within its right palm. Its joints were teal-ish, and its metallic skin green. It's face was blank and expressionless, but its eyes were a single yellow tone. It wore what appeared to be a nurse's cap, except the entirety of it was green as well.

Frankie could recognize it from a mile away: this damn Stand even knows what Lynyrd Skynyrd looks like! Retreated his Stand became as well, a humanoid with glowing indigo appendages and a big electricity symbol on its chest which also glowed: it was Moon River!

Frankie's mission was clear, he needed to get close enough for his glow to reach this imposter Rossington's skin. With that, he could completely cancel out his Stand. Moon River's physical capabilities were much sharper than Lynyrd Skynyrd's, and he knew that a close range beatdown would destroy this faker.

His plot went into action immediately, and he rushed toward the fake Rossington. Moon River's arm reached out to punch it, but to no avail. There seemed to be an invisible force field between the two. Frankie halted in place, and his Stand swerved behind the faker, and attempted another hit to the back of the neck, but the leg was reflected off just as the arm was. Lynyrd Skynyrd approached him calmly, and a shaking fear ran down his spine; he couldn't move. The enemy Stand's Palm was pressed against Frankie's bicep, and the pain of getting blood taken surged through his body. It was pulled out and the Stand retreated back to its owner, floating idly above him. Its face transformed into a screen.

"Information needed," it called out, in a monotone voice. The screen displayed two requirements, 'Name' and 'Ability'.

"Name: Frankie Sinatro. Ability: Stand can glow on others to disable the movement of their Stand. It has a battery which must be recharged by returning to its user. As long as the glow is out, any Stand is not allowed within the radius of it." The voice of the imposter sounded awfully a lot like Rossington's real voice, which Frankie knew was conjured up by Dr Dre's Stand. The screen filled itself with the text, and showed a loading bar underneath it. From Frankie's experience, it could take anywhere from 10-15 minutes to complete. But in this case, it took only a few seconds.

Frankie's eyes widened as Lynyrd Skynyrd came dashing midair to once again pierce him. The antidote was saved within its syringe now. He tried to wiggle himself free from terror's curse, but his body wouldn't listen, and he remained motionless. The syringe once again stabbed into his arm, and now it felt like a flu shot from the biggest needle in the world. Frankie was able to cry out in pain before the syringe had left. Afterwards, he wa able to move again, but now he felt much weaker, and started to walk back against the door. Moon River slowly swam across the air, but without any energy or power at all, it seemed. Its arm was flung out to return to its owner, but it was much too far away. It's hands twitched uncontrollably, before it became translucent against the empty night sky. It phased completely out of existence before bellowing in pain. Frankie, now with his Stand exorcised, was drained and lightheaded. Any effort he had from this point on was futile.


End file.
